They Say It's Full of Secrets
by WeatherWatch
Summary: A peculiar Snatcher and a Muggleborn captive - plus a dash of Stockholm Syndrome, naturally.
1. a haon

**A/N****:  
>#1. 'She knows everything about everyone. That's why her hair is so big, <strong>_**it's full of secrets.'**_** – Mean Girls. The projection of this quote onto Scabior is inspired by a DeviantArt drawing TheAtomicBoom created. It's forever going to describe our plaid-panted snatcher in my mind...  
>#2. I'm having a phase over Cockney Rhyming Slang and, as such, Scabior now uses it. I think it works. I'll include meanings at the end of chapters where he uses it (and I apologise for potentially using it embarrassingly incorrectly, but I'm nowhere near England, so it's somewhat of an experiment). <strong>

**Warning****: There will be some language in this, mostly in the beginning, because things have gone from bad to as bad as it can possibly get. After that, I'll be trying to keep it to a minimum, though Snatchers are obviously a bit uncouth and mouthy, so it won't vanish completely. Also, this warning is probably irrelevant because my sense of 'too much swearing' is quite different to that of a lot of other people.**

**Blanket Disclaimer****: I gain faic (that is, nothing) but satisfaction and perhaps a few kind reviews from strangers. Everything recognisable is from that wonderful, genius lady, JK Rowling. **

* * *

><p>"<strong>for the prey can scent its peril"<br>**_oh the shame that sent me off from the God that I once loved  
>was the same that sent me into your arms<br>/Winter Winds - Mumford & Sons/_

-:-

Hermione's heart was beating a rapid tattoo as she held her breath; directly in front of her stood a man of indeterminable age with dirty skin and tangled hair. His leather coat was well-worn, covering a curious array of clothes – notably a superbly conspicuous pair of black and white plaid pants and a pale brown leather vest among other darkly coloured garments – while fingerless gloves covered his hands, one bare finger decorated by a gleaming silver ring in the shape of a stag's head.

His blue eyes stared straight through her, seeing nothing through the wards she had so carefully constructed upon her arrival in the forest with Harry and Ron, but it wasn't enough for Hermione to breathe easier. She knew he could smell her on the air. He inhaled the air deeply, tentatively reaching out a hand, but paused when one of his companions dropped his load – some poor soul, muggleborn probably, who'd been too slow to escape the Snatchers.

"Oi, wha' are ye doin'?" he demanded of the other Snatcher, returning to the small group. "Pick 'im up."

"He's heavy!" the other complained, flexing his tired hands.

The head Snatcher looked pointedly at him and said, in a deceptively polite voice, "I don' fuckin' care, do I? Pick 'im up or me lovely daisies 'ere'll be up ye fuckin' Khyber." To the rest of his party he added impatiently, "Well, come on! Back to the camp, lads."

As they vanished out of the clearing, Hermione let out a shaky breath. He could smell her scent – the one she'd brought with her to remind her of her mother, worn to try and distract Ron – he could smell her presence. Shame and embarrassment caused hot tears that threatened to fall, but she quickly wiped them away as Harry stepped up beside her.

"At least we know they work," he said quietly, looking over to where the men had disappeared. "The wards will keep us safe, Hermione."

"He mightn't have been able to see or hear us," she conceded, "but he still has scent."

Harry looked at her, confused.

"My perfume," she explained with a soft groan. "He could smell it in the air. Ugh, how could I be so stupid! I put us all in danger!" She covered her face with her hands, but Harry grasped them at the wrist and pulled them away.

"It's fine Hermione. We're safe, they didn't find us," he told her gently. "So maybe he could smell you, but we won't make the same mistake twice." Hermione looked up at him, and there was no malice, no anger, not even disappointment, on his face and as he smiled at her, she nodded, sucking in a deep breath. "That's my girl," Harry praised, and tugged her in for a quick hug. "We'll be fine."

She wished she could believe him.

||-:-||

Ron had left them.

It was the locket's fault, she was sure of it, but a niggling thought in the back of her mind reminded her cruelly during the cold, shortening, days that the locket could only intensify that which was already there – Ron's doubts must have been lingering in his mind for weeks before he'd finally snapped.

She hated thinking of the boys' raised voices; fighting was something she might have done all through school with Ron, but Harry and Ron – closer than brothers, they were – they'd never fought, not like this. Ron's anger over Harry's selection in the Tri-Wizard Tournament was nothing compared to the anger she'd witnessed in their tent the day he'd left.

Each time she closed her eyes, Hermione re-lived their horrible words to one another, the malice in them echoing in her mind. Sleep, already hard to find, was proving even more difficult because of it, so in the end Hermione had volunteered to keep watch, waking Harry only for short shifts and poring for hours over the battered copy of 'Tales of Beedle the Bard' that Dumbledore had left to her in his will.

Days passed, but the ache didn't cease; Ron had left them, asked of her an impossible choice.

He had broken her heart.

The strangest part, though, was the lack of romantic betrayal she was feeling. It was entirely in the form of friendship that she was hurting. Ron was supposed to their best friend; part of the Golden Trio! Brash, stubborn, and loyal to a fault – that was Ron Weasley!

But he'd gone; left them.

In a moment of wishful thinking, Hermione tied her scarf to one of the four corner trees that indicated their encampment – a sign, just in case he decided to come back. Then, together, she and Harry disappeared into nothingness.

Ron's sudden reappearance almost several weeks later did little to endear him to her, even in his drenched and freezing state, and only after hearing that he had destroyed the locket did she refrain from pelting him with her fists. His abandonment had hurt her to the core, and even after the good news of another destroyed horcrux she was unable to completely forgive him his actions.

"This doesn't change anything," she growled, before storming back into the tent. Yet Ron's return had lifted their spirits significantly and, forgiveness not-withstanding, they had come together as a whole as if he'd never been gone, the atmosphere a great deal more cheery since the destruction of Slytherin's damn locket.

They were preparing to leave when the unsettling feeling of being watched erupted in the pit of Hermione's stomach. She looked up, and out of the forest landscape stepped the man from before; the one who had smelt her perfume through their wards.

"'Ello beau'iful," he said, leaning casually against the tree as he fiddled with the shiny silver ring on his left index finger. "Going somewhere, are we? I think not."

There was a second of paralysing panic where Hermione reacted as prey everywhere does in the face of the predator. Then she screamed.

"RUN!"

Neither Harry nor Ron needed telling twice. The three youths darted between trees, the words of the head Snatcher reaching their ears as he instructed his men to snatch them.

The sound of feet on undergrowth played like a terrifying soundtrack and Hermione was quite sure that she had never been this frightened in her life. If they were caught – if they were recognised! – they were as good as dead. Snatchers may not have been accepted into Death Eater ranks, but in many ways they were far worse. There were worse ways to die than Avada Kadavra, and not all Snatchers had earned their way into Azkaban because of an Unforgivable.

They were losing, she could tell. Running hell for leather, the Snatchers were still gaining, and in the distance she spotted more appearing in front of them, blocking any chance of escape. They were surrounded. In a swift movement that encompassed idea, decision and action, Hermione spun around, and with her wand aimed at Harry's face hissed the incantation of a stinging hex. Immediately, Harry's face bubbled and deformed so intensely it looked as if he was diseased. Good, she thought, grabbing his glasses and shoving them in her blue beaded bag. The less he seemed like Harry Potter, the better.

Men, dirty and evil, crowded around them, aiming kicks and restraining them roughly when the trio tried to fight back.

The leader sauntered into the clearing. "Wha' 'appened to you?" he asked at Harry, not particularly desiring an answer. Instead, he continued past the Boy-Who-Lived and stepped up to Hermione, the hint of a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, well, wha' 'ave we 'ere?" he drawled as Hermione stared defiantly over his shoulder. He lifted a hand and stroked her face, his palm gently caressing down her neck before he entwined his fingers in her curly hair. She was stricken to see her pink scarf wound about his neck, adding to his atypical dress. Bringing the brown locks to his face, the man inhaled. His heavily lined eyes closed ever so slightly as he savoured her scent before he leaned closer, resting his lips against her ear. "You smell like vanilla," he murmured, his voice dropping with the unmistakable tenor of lust. "I think you're going to be my favourite."

There was no disgust in her Hermione's mind, only fear. Utterly consuming terror was emanating from her very pores, and then, not a moment too soon, the man drew away from her to aim a punch into Ron's stomach, the ginger having become more troublesome as the Snatcher invaded Hermione's personal space.

"Oi, Scabior," one of the younger looking Snatchers interrupted suddenly, gazing at Harry's swollen face. "C'mere and have a look at this. It looks like it could be a scar or summat."

Scabior sent one last kick at Ron, who lay crumpled on the ground, and stalked over to their third prisoner. Grasping Harry's head in one, he tilted it back painfully and gently ran a finger over the disfigured mark. "Ye know, ye migh' be righ'," he said. He stared at it a moment longer, ran his eyes over the curly haired brunette and almost unconscious ginger, and then his eyes widened in understanding and sadistic glee.

"Change o' plans, lads. These three are headin' straigh' to Malfoy Manor."

||-:-||

Hermione took in the eerie Manor and thought she might finally understand why Draco Malfoy had been such a complete and utter prat at Hogwarts. The place he called home was dark, uninviting, and full of awful paintings that whispered cruel words under their breath as the group made their way into the drawing room. She stumbled over the corridor rug and was roughly redirected by her captor before being shoved unceremoniously through the door into the company of Bellatrix Lestrange, and the entire Malfoy family.

Draco looked terrible, about as bad as Harry and Ron; he had dark circles under his eyes and his usually very pristine appearance was suffering. His father looked much the same. Somehow, Narcissa was managing to maintain the image of Lady of the Manor, but her eyes were uncertain and contained more than a hint of worry.

"What are these?" Bellatrix demanded in her harsh, high voice, moving from behind a long wooden table into the centre of the room. Scabior stepped forward in his careless manner, playing once again with his ring.

"We've a bi' of a surprise for you lot," he said by way of explanation. "Some kiddies we found runnin' about the woods. Take a gander at 'em and you might see why they're so special." He lifted himself to sit on the tabletop and grinned deviously, leaning forward. "O' course, I respec'fully ask for the lass, if ye don't mind. Finders-keepers, ye understan'."

Bellatrix had wandered over to look at Harry's deformed face, and excitement was radiating off her as she realised who exactly Scabior was meaning when he said 'special kiddies'. "Draco," she called. "Come here. Look at it, is it Potter?"

Reluctantly, the blond approached. "I- I'm not sure," he dallied, clearly uncomfortable at being involved in the identification. "It could be."

"Look here," Bellatrix prompted, indicating the scar. To the Snatchers she asked, "What happened to him?"

"He was like that when we found him," one offered. "Probably caught something in the forest while on the run; there're all sorts of nasty-"

The mad Black sister's gaze silenced the lackey, and he slinked discontentedly back into the background. Eagerly, she looked at the two other prisoners. The ginger could well be a Blood Traitor Weasley, and the weak little girl could easily be the Mudblood, she deliberated, but then her gaze fell upon a glinting weapon in the hands of a dim-looking Snatcher. Calm turned to rage in a millisecond.

"Where did you get that?" she hissed, levelling her wand at the man, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"It was with the kids, I reckon I earned it," he replied. It wasn't the right answer, because Bellatrix flicked her wand and blasted him backwards, knocking the Gryffindor's sword from his grip.

The Snatchers were moved into action, all but Scabior drawing their wands, but none were a match for the insane witch, and she took them down in groups of two and three until they scarpered, fearing for their lives. Scabior looked on from his seat on the heavy wooden table, his face betraying no emotion.

Having sent the majority of the Snatchers fleeing, Bellatrix swooped on Hermione, pulling her head up painfully by the hair. "How do you have the sword?" she shrieked. "You've broken into my vault. How?"

Hermione shook her head in vain. "No, we didn't, I swear… Never… we've never been in there, I swear."

The young witch trembled before Bellatrix Lestrange, knowing the inhuman things she had done before without a hint of regret made it all the more terrifying.

"Leave her alone," Ron yelled, and Bellatrix turned, livid. She looked between the two prisoners and then smiled. It was a hundred times more threatening than her anger.

"I think I might need to have a little chat," she purred maliciously, "girl to girl. Take those two down to the dungeons."

After that, the only thing Hermione could remember was the pain of Cruciatus, the sharp sting of a knife slicing through her skin, and a misplaced image of a pair of plaid trousers before she finally fell into welcome unconsciousness.

||-:-||

There are two methods to waking up in a strange location; one involves being resigned, and the other entails complete and utter panic. Hermione, after sleeping for almost seventy-four hours straight, was of the latter school.

Her chest heaved as she tried desperately to get her bearings, swinging herself into a sitting position, but it came to nothing as she observed the plain, unfamiliar tan calico of tent walls. It wasn't the one she shared with Ron and Harry, and the thought made her heart pound as much as her head, which protested the sudden change of location to which it had just been subjected.

Hermione felt queasiness rise within her as the muscles around her ribs contracted painfully and quickly lay back down, unwilling to allow the sensation to control her. She hating throwing up, and her throat already felt as if somebody had made her eat sandpaper.

The bed in which she had slept so peacefully was large, and smelt comfortingly of man, but she was discomforted by the lack of memory regarding how she'd gotten there, the last coherent memory being Bellatrix Lestrange (who definitely would not have offered her a bed) and excruciating pain. With that thought, it was as if Hermione's body remembered the suffering it had endured and a dull ache rose up, painfully reaching through all her limbs. Her legs wouldn't be able to her weight, of that she was certain.

Warily and wearily, Hermione let herself relax into the covers as best she could, hoping to God and Merlin and anybody else that might be listening that Harry and Ron were safe, wherever they were. In minutes she had returned to her slumber, the bliss punctuated only by the faint murmurs of a deep voice and the occasional sensation of healing charms as their pleasant tingle spread in cool bursts across her body.

When she woke again, Hermione was naked beneath the sheets and a thin layer of paste – which she recognised as a simple anti-bruise balm – had been smeared across one of the nasty bruises on her leg and also on her ribs. A steaming mug sat by her bed accompanied by a short note in small, spiky handwriting.

_Drink it all._

She examined the anonymous note carefully, deciding in the end that whoever it was helping her clearly had her best interests at heart (at least at the moment) because they'd healed her exhausted, damaged body almost entirely. In fact, the only lingering remnant of her experience in Malfoy Manor was the scarring on her forearm, where Bellatrix had hatefully carved the word 'mudblood'; but even that had been reduced to a much less recent-looking state Hermione realised with some surprise as she fingered the raised scar tissue.

A noise from outside startled her out of her reverie, and she looked up, her brown eyes locking with a pair of bright blue ones, and Hermione gasped in fear and surprise.

"Welcome back to the land o' the livin', swee'eart," Scabior said softly, and something in his eyes glinted.

* * *

><p><strong>This is basically an introduction to the situation, after which things get both more complicated and more interesting. This isn't intended to be horrendously dark, but Scabior won't be all sunshine and daisies, so we'll see how it evolves. <strong>

**Please, Read and Review Responsibly.**

**Cockney Rhyming Slang:  
>- daisies (daisy roots = boots)<br>- Khyber (Khyber Pass = arse)**


	2. a dó

_A noise from outside startled her out of her reverie, and she looked up, her brown eyes locking with a pair of bright blue ones, and Hermione gasped in fear and surprise._

"_Welcome back to the land o' the livin', swee'eart," Scabior said softly, and something in his eyes glinted._

"**unearth your shelter in the cage"**_  
>the arranger of disorder<br>with your strange and simple rules__  
>Gypsy - Suzanne Vega/_

-:-

"You!" Hermione cried out fearfully, shrinking back against the bed head and drawing the sheets closer about her bare body.

"Well," Scabior said loftily, the roughness in his voice surprisingly agreeable considering their opposition. "There's gra'itude, for ye." He moved further into the room and, squatting, began to shuffle through some unidentifiable papers that had been dumped in piles in the far corner. Selecting a handful of them, he stood and pocketed one of them in one smooth motion before turning his gaze once again on the young woman sitting naked in his bed. "I 'ealed yer broken, bloody body, little Miss Granger, and this is the thanks ye give me? Shame on ye."

His eye line dropped to her heaving chest, covered though it was by the white sheet, and Hermione bristled. "I never asked it of you," she hissed, clutching the soft fabric tighter even as Scabior wandered over to the simple table at the end of the bed, his attention seemingly elsewhere. "Where am I? Where are my friends? And where are my _clothes_?"

"I don' think yer really in a position to demand things of me, love," Scabior commented with a smile, his tone still light. "The 'ospitality might go down, an' ye won' like that."

The suggestion caused Hermione's blood to freeze, but Scabior continued without pause: "O' course, the clothes can be readily explained – they've been burned. No point in keeping 'em when there's that much blood," he told her with a shrug. "Besides, they were gettin' in the way o' the 'ealing."

Hermione watched him with an indecipherable expression that belied none of the struggle going on in her mind. The snatcher had healed her quite well, hadn't… _violated_ her, and was treating her with an unexpected modicum of civility. She frowned minutely, and said quietly, "Thank you."

As soon as she'd voiced the words, a wave of dizziness hit her and she winced, but the moment was over as quickly as it had appeared.

"An' _there_ we go," Scabior murmured in acknowledgement, the words barely audible, while his head lifted sharply at her speech. The snatcher's bright blue eyes fixed on her face for fraction of a second, then his eye-lids fluttered and he drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

A thin chain of gold materialised in Hermione's peripheral vision, just above her wrist, and the delicate string reached out to close the distance between herself and Scabior, wrapping around his wand hand and fading into his skin, but she found, frustratingly, that when she turned her attention to it, the golden chain disappeared.

The moment having come and gone, Scabior set the remaining two documents down and walked around to stand by her bedside, a curious expression on his face that Hermione could not place.

"Oh, my lovely," he murmured gaily, hands in his pockets. "It seems yer knowledge of the Wizarding world is lackin'." Hermione, unsure of what he meant, deepened her frown. "Gratuity's the key to the life debt," he explained, "an' ye just sealed it. Yer in my power now, lass."

"Life debt?" Hermione repeated numbly, and Scabior nodded.

"Yer lucky to be alive after what Crazy Bella did to ye, and yer survival was entirely dependent on me," he said. "Yer welcome," he added in response to her earlier thanks. "Now, let me see those injuries."

Hermione flinched away as he drew his wand. "No."

"I can't 'elp you when yer all covered up; I need to see the damaged area."

"You just want to see me naked, you creep!"

Irritation swept swiftly into his expression and he made the mistake, then, of approaching her with his wand arm down. Hermione, the sheets gathered about her, swung back her leg and kicked, hard. Her heel managed to connect with his upper thigh which, while not what she was aiming for, hindered his advance and he gave a yell of pain. As quick as she could, Hermione rolled to the other side of the bed, intending to flee through the tent and away from this strange snatcher that she couldn't understand and made it as far as the main room of the Wizarding tent before Scabior tackled her from behind. With one hand over her mouth and the other about her waist like a vice he placed his mouth by her ear and hissed harshly, "That was stupid, little witchlin'. You would've stood no chance out there. Greyback shares my camp, and ye already know 'ow much he'd like to close his teeth about yer pale, pretty neck. The others mightn't be as bad, but they're still all Azkaban boys – just like me – and yer a fit lass with only skin coverin' yer body. Ye wouldn't make it five steps."

He carried her struggling body back to the bedroom, dumping her on the bed and quickly smothering her body with his own, forcing her legs apart beneath the sheets to accommodate his lithe form. She was dually terrified now – his comments about the men outside had permeated her mind (truly, she hadn't thought about what would happen once she was out of the tent, and it was far worse to have ten men than one leering at her and touching her – the thought alone was petrifying!) but Scabior's own dominating actions were frightening her now as well, and she wriggled about, trying to put distance between their bodies.

"You've two options, lovely, and that's it. Behave, or suffer nasty consequences. All the cards are in my 'and; ye've no wand and no strength – I could take ye now and ye couldn't do a thing." His open mouth trailed down the side of her throat towards the swell of her breasts, but the snatcher reluctantly pulled back before his lips reached their destination. "Lucky for _you_, 'owever, I like my bed-mates fit an' 'ealthy. Blood might be Greyback's ultimate turn-on, but it ain't mine."

Hermione made the sensible decision to refrain from fighting him, knowing she was in a losing situation, and tried her very best to relax her overly tense muscles despite the rage and fear and another unfamiliar sensation swirling about inside her like a tempest. Having him lying over her so intimately, her body completely naked beneath the sheets, was throwing her senses into overdrive and she hated herself for the way their position caused her stomach to lurch. (_In a not entirely unpleasant way_, the furthest reaching part of her feminine brain noted gallingly).

Scabior watched the fight leave her as he leaned his full weight into the craadle of her hips, her wrists held tight in his larger hands, and when she had finally eased all struggling he raised himself to a sitting position and straddled her slender form in his black and white plaid trousers.

"I like pretty women as much as I like pretty trinkets, love, and there's no point in breaking something of mine unless I've no other choice. So don' let it get that far," he warned her, and Hermione, realising he was waiting for her acknowledgement, gave a tiny nod. "Good girl. Now let me see yer injuries."

With a shuddering breath, Hermione let him pull back the sheet that covered her chest and, to his credit, he did not stare at her breasts, but ran a diagnostic with his wand after he climbed off her powerless form. It surprised her, if she was being honest, because medical charms were some of the most complicated magic possible and he seemed to be rather adept at them for a b-grade Death Eater (as the Snatcher's were rated).

He checked her ribs; observed her bruises; regarded the slow healing of the scarring on her arm, and all the while Hermione tried to think of anything but the fact that she was completely bare before him, closing her eyes and almost succeeding in the silence of the tent as he went about his work without a word. She started badly when he pressed the first cold dollop of balm just below her collarbone, and Scabior made soothing noises not unlike those humans made to frightened animals as he massaged the thick paste into her skin. He could feel the heightened pace of her heartbeat, but ignored her reactions, preferring to finish the healing. When everything had been done to his satisfaction, he pulled the sheet back over her body to return her at least a smidgeon of modesty and settled back on the edge of the bed, his wand held loosely in his hand.

"Now, beautiful," he said companionably, "as I said before, there's an easy way and an 'ard way. The easy way, all ye have to do is follow some very simple little rules. Will ye hear them quietly now?"

"Alright," Hermione answered carefully. "Tell me your rules."

"There're only three things I'll have ye follow implicitly: first of all, never touch my wand. Anything else in 'ere is fair game, but my wand is mine and mine alone, and ye wouldn't like it's feel anyway, what with some of the things it's done. Second, ye don't leave this tent without me. Maybe later ye can go alone with my consent, but for now ye don't leave it unless I'm by yer side. And third," he stared her right in the eye, his piercing blue orbs looking at her with an unsettling evenness, "_never_ take it in yer head that ye can defy me in front of my Snatchers or the Werewolf – in 'ere, fine, but never in front of fellow Snatchers. Do ye understand me?"

"Yes."

He looked at her expressionlessly and then clarified, "More to the point: do ye agree?"

"I do," Hermione conceded; her pose had transformed to one of submission as she sat calmly on the bed, the sheets still held tightly about her slender body.

"Good girl," Scabior praised. "Now, ye can have some o' the food over there."

She looked to where he pointed and saw an array of foods that she recognised for being gentle on the stomach and felt a wave of gratitude (even as she hated him for imprisoning her) because she hadn't eaten – particularly not properly – for at least a handful of days and she knew she wouldn't be able to stomach anything rich.

"Erm," she hesitated, worrying her lip gently with her teeth. "Can I have some clothes to wear?"

"I think not, just for the moment," Scabior answered apathetically. "It's precautionary, beau'iful; I don't completely trust ye and this is one way to keep ye in the confines of the tent." He glanced over at her then, his eyes darkening a shade with lust that had until then been absent, and smirked slowly and predatorily. "And besides, I quite prefer ye like this."

Hermione cringed at the sexual overtone and Scabior stood up with a bark of laughter. "Eat, love," he ordered, and the snatcher headed over to the door. "I'll be back later," he told her and disappeared out of the room.

Hermione sat in silence for several minutes, her heart beating wildly as his words echoed about her head, and then stood quietly and made her way to the food, eating slowing despite the rumbling groans of her belly and the ravenous hunger produced by her torture.

It was time to count her blessings, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem.

She pottered around the tent for most of the day, Scabior having left for 'work' (she shivered at the thought of what that entailed), dragging the bedsheet behind her as she navigated the unfamiliar tent layout. Not once did she meet another snatcher, and she obeyed his rule to stay indoors unless he be chaperoning her more from fear than proper obedience. She didn't want to take unnecessary risks regarding Fenrir Greyback, the notorious Werewolf who had allied his pack with Voldemort.

Instead, she browsed her cage.

Surprisingly, Hermione discovered a small bookshelf with four well worn, sizeable texts sitting on it: _Two of a Kind_ by Emeritus Crockford, _Pure_ by Septimus Lestrange (Hermione pulled her hand away when she saw the author's last name), _An Encyclopaedia of Remedies and Medical Charms: Healing through Magic _by Charlotte Finchwhistle and Dr Nigellus Copefield, and, to Hermione's astonished delight, an battered copy of _Stranger in a Strange Land_ by Robert A. Heinlein, the cover spell-o-taped to stop it from falling away. She carefully removed it and settled onto the simple settee, intending to forget everything but the book until she had no choice but to stare her gaoler in the face.

Hours passed, and Hermione read.

Chapters flew by and she soon found herself growing drowsy in the mid afternoon as her body protested the constant wakefulness; she still wasn't completely healed from Bellatrix's torture session.

At about five o'clock in the evening, Hermione, half-asleep, was brought to sudden consciousness by the touch of Scabior's fingertips beneath her chin.

"I could get used to this sight greeting me," he stated, his eyes flicking to the visible valley of her breasts and then her bare legs which were curled up beside her for comfort's sake. She pulled away from his gentle grasp. "How are yer injuries, girlie? Any pain?"

"No," she answered simply, avoiding his eyes, hoping to keep their interaction to a minimum, but apparently the snatcher had other ideas.

"I see ye found my sad little collection."

Hermione nodded.

"Yer welcome to read them while yer 'ere," he added, and Hermione had the bizarre urge to laugh – the way he said it sounded as if she were on a holiday! "And I'm glad ye kept to my rules. It ain't safe for ye outside unless yer with me. Speaking o' which," he noted idly, "we'll be takin' a walk after dinner – just a short one, mind – to get yer legs movin' again. Fair warning: the boys'll enjoy a little leering peep or two, but yer not to speak to them unless I give ye permission."

"Will I be dressed for this walk?" Hermione asked a little bitterly.

"That depends on yer own good self, not me. Good behaviour reaps rewards, my vanilla scented lovely."

His words made her feel like a dog; given a treat when good, sprayed in the face with water when bad. As she fumed silently, Scabior reached out his hand again, but this time slid it along her jaw to tangle in her messy hair, massaging her scalp with the barest movements. Hermione's breath hitched, and his icy blue eyes settled on hers for a long drawn out moment before he pulled away sharply and said in an entirely indifferent tone, "Now, come and take yer second healin' session o' the day."

As she lay vulnerable before the snatcher Hermione forced her thoughts onto Harry and Ron, trying to determine if she had any memory of their possible escape, or (she hoped desperately that this wasn't the case) any tragedy that may be befallen them in Malfoy Manor. To be frank, she had absolutely no idea. There were no memories at all in the haze of torture that contained a red haired boy, or bespectacled green eyes set below a familiar lightning bolt scar; the only things she could remember were the plaid pants she now recognised as belonging to Scabior the snatcher, and the hateful vision of Bellatrix's gaunt, mad face as she immersed herself in Hermione's suffering.

"Done," Scabior informed her, allowing her to pull up the sheet once again. "And because you've been a perfectly good patient, swee'eart, ye get to wear this during our little walk." With a flick of his wand, a very plain tan shift was conjured out of nothingness and deposited on the bed haphazardly. "We eat in ten," he told her, and left her to change.

Hermione didn't move for a while, thinking instead of the strange civility the man was showing her. He was courteous in a peculiar way, respecting her privacy in the manner of a doctor when he healed her, only leering at her when she was covered by the sheet (not that she felt it lent her much defence), and not treating her badly at all – of course, she knew that went on only as long as she remained obedient to his whims.

They shared a quiet dinner of cold chicken and vegetables and, when they'd finished, Scabior cleared the table by magic and lead Hermione to the door.

"Now, darlin'," he began cheerfully, "you'll appreciate that there are certain ways to do things, so yer hands'll be tied for our little stroll. But no fear, I won't let any o' my boys do ye any harm."

A whispered incantation caused a thin line of rope to shoot out of his wand and wrap about Hermione's slender wrists and, like a dog-owner, he held the other end and walked her outside.

It was chilly; the gentle wind was brisk and Hermione noted almost all the camp members huddled about a large fire that served as centrepiece to the little group of tents. Scabior pulled her forward, towards a trio of men, dirty and frightening in appearance.

"Taking yer wee rabbit fer a walk, are ye?" one man asked with a leer that revealed a mouth missing several teeth.

"Aye, Hack," Scabior agreed calmly, standing between the fellow and Hermione. "Have the three 'o ye figured out the name of the old codger from the last Snatch yet?"

"Not yet," another of the group answered. Scabior scowled at him.

"Get onto it; I want to know before midnight."

He left them mumbling grumpily over working too hard and Hermione, timid and silent, walked immediately to his left. She inched even closer when they passed Fenrir, the Werewolf's head having twisted around to zero on her, his long canines bared in a smile that made her shudder. The man was far more wolf than human, even without the full moon to initiate his transformation. She kept her eyes away from his gaze, and therefore didn't see Scabior's slight smile at her reaction.

As they passed the rest of the members of the little colony, Hermione was subject to a number of lewd comments, only one of them, a short haired blond, not seeming to have any sexual interest in her at all, but the only time Scabior stepped in to settle them was when a young man called Mikhail had the gall to touch her chest after a particularly offensive comment about her state of virginity. He'd barely grazed her shift-covered flesh when Scabior had whipped his wand below the man's throat and hissed in a deadly voice that could be heard with perfect clarity in spite of its quietness, "Now, now, me old china… ye know I don' take disobedience lightly. Ye weren't to touch 'er."

The atmosphere seemed to freeze. Mikhail immediately dropped his gaze and apologised in a rush before slinking away into the darkness, and the Snatchers who were standing close by seemed to distance themselves from the lead Snatcher and his prize. Hermione observed the change with fascination; clearly, Scabior had already warned the group of his possession and wasn't keen on sharing. Also, his role as the leader must have been well earned because this motley group clearly believed him able to do some severe damage.

Scabior was seething after Mikhail's testing of his boundaries, and he whipped his head around as a twig snapped to his right. Focusing on the shadow in the dark, he realised that it was just Jasper.

Jasper was the only member of the group he would even consider calling a friend, though they hadn't made that particular progression in their working relationship. As it stood, Jasper was mostly a voice of reason and perspective in a chaotic situation, someone who Scabior could almost trust - a rare quality in a group of Snatchers. (He was also the sole member of the group to have refrained from harassing Hermione, she grateful to note).

"Well, that went well," the young man said; his sandy blone hair was cut short, with a rune that Hermione couldn't quite make out shaved into the left side of his head. He reminded her awfully, for some reason, of her former Slytherin classmate, Blaise Zabini. The unaffected manner, effortless grace and unashamed sense of superiority were a veritable mirror of the Italian wizard. "Mikhail was pushing his luck this time; I'm surprised you didn't hex him actually."

"It was only sheer strength of will that stopped me," Scabior answered irritably. "What do you want?"

"Nothing; nothing," Jasper waved his question away and gestured to the levitating, unconscious form of a portly man. "I just wanted to say that the man we found this morning was on the list. I'll be taking him to the Ministry now, so you don't have to worry." Looking at Hermione, he added, "And Scabior, you really need to learn how transfigure more attractive clothes. Honestly, she looks like a house-elf."

"Fuc-"

The end of Scabior's cursing statement was drowned out by the crack of Apparition as Jasper vanished into nothingness, taking the unconscious man with him. Hermione looked at the empty air sadly; the poor muggleborn wizard was probably going to end up in Azkaban.

"He's the only one that does anything 'round 'ere," Scabior said conversationally. He turned to Hermione. "Come on, let's get ye back inside – away from lechin' Snatchers."

Hermione snorted cynically. "Not away from all of them," she scoffed, and was jerked into Scabior's arms with a sharp tug of the rope, her back to his chest as his arms wrapped around her like a vice.

"I won't accept insubordination from ye unless yer in the tent, my girl," he reminded her softly, lips moving against her ear, a hint of hardness in his tone. It sent shivers up her spine, and, traitorously, she couldn't tell if it was gratification or fear that caused the reaction.

She went to bed that night without Dreamless Sleep to knock her into a cataleptic state and, miserably, was plagued by nightmares almost constantly. The fourth time she woke, terrified, screaming and sweaty, she was startled by the sight of a boxer-clad Scabior who had held her flailing limbs until she settled into wakefulness, stopping her from causing her body any more damage than it had already endured.

Without saying a word, he climbed onto the bed, staying above the sheets, and held her against his lithe figure. Hermione stiffened at first, but relaxed gradually as the warmth from his body calmed her and pushed away the nightmares.

Her tears dried on her cheeks and Scabior heard the faintest whispered 'thank you' before her tiny form bowed under the weight of slumber.

When Hermione woke the next morning, he was gone.

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><p><strong>Please Read and Review Responsibly.<strong>

**Cockney Rhyming Slang:  
>- china (china plate = mate)<strong>

**Thank you for the warm reception this story has had from you all! I hope you continue to enjoy it; I, certainly, am having quite a bit of fun with its writing.**


	3. a trí

**Warning:**** There's a bit of language in this chapter, for cathartic purposes. (And sorry it's a bit of a filler… not nearly enough Scabior strutting about the place! Don't worry though, I promise he'll make it up to you in the next chapter.)**

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><p><em>Her tears dried on her cheeks and Scabior heard the faintest whispered 'thank you' before her tiny form bowed under the weight of slumber.<em>

_When Hermione woke the next morning, he was gone._

"**through light comes the shadows"**_  
>if music be the food of love<br>then laughter is its queen  
>Whiter Shade of Pale - Procul Harum/_

-:-

Hermione was grateful when she got up to see the plain shift lying on the end of the bed, ready for wear. Quickly, she pulled it on and padded softly into the main living area.

Scabior was already awake, sitting cross legged on the settee as he munched on a whole green apple. His eyes flickered over to her for a brief moment but settled back on the copy of the Daily Prophet that he was perusing casually. The young witch silently sat at the table, helping herself to a small amount of fruit that was set out there.

She was troubled, wanting to thank the snatcher for rescuing her from her night terrors but not wishing to bring up the topic of their intimate, though admittedly nonsexual, embrace – after all, he was still her foe.

On the other side of the room, Scabior was struggling to keep his eyes – and hands – off the Hermione's slender figure. His little deviation into her bedroom the night before had been an instinctive reaction to her pitiful cries, but the feel of her body fitted tightly against his, only the thin sheet separating bare skin, had awakened his forcefully dampened hormones. Part of him itched to have her writhing beneath him, sighing and whimpering and mewling as he addressed her perfect body, but he knew that he had to wait; had to wait for her to come to him (and he knew, eventually, she would) to initiate their interaction. He loved power, but as a Slytherin he also loved manipulation and _her_ exploitation – this petite, vanilla scented, angelic mudblood-witchling – would be his greatest feat yet.

In the silence, Hermione's thoughts turned to Harry and Ron. She contemplated asking the Snatcher for news, to try and wheedle out any knowledge he might have of their whereabouts or state of being. She didn't like to think of it as dead or alive. She couldn't bear to think of it even possibly being the former of them, but she had to know anything that he could tell her.

"Sc-Scabior," she asked quietly, "do you know what happened to my friends?"

Scabior looked up from his reading. "Yer friends?" he repeated. "Potter and Weasley?"

Hermione nodded, swallowing thickly.

"Ye'd rather not hear wha' went on whilst ye were out, I think," he said after a moment of silence.

"They – they're alright, though," she asked him. "Aren't they?"

He didn't answer. Hermione gulped. "Tell me they're alright," she pleaded, standing hurriedly, causing the chair to scrape against the floor. "Please, don't say they're…"

She couldn't say the word; couldn't bear thinking it even.

"Fine," Scabior agreed lazily, "I won' say it."

Standing, he added: "I'll be away until three o'clock. Jasper's in charge o' lookin' after ye while I'm gone. Ye'll do everything 'e tells ye without complaint or ye'll find my temper a heckuvalot shorter than it's been lately."

Hermione barely heard him. The unspoken word – dead – was echoing around her mind with images of Harry and Ron; he hadn't actually said the words, but what he _had_ told her indicated that her boys were, more than likely, deceased. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as she sat in shock. It couldn't be true. Harry, her best friend, the brother that she never had, the only one who could defeat Voldemort; Ron, dear, sweet, rash Ron, who she once thought she might marry many years in the future – they just couldn't be dead! And yet, for all she knew, they could be…

Scabior walked over to her, nary a noise to his footsteps, and slid his fingers into her hair. "Cheer up, swee'eart. Nothing's ever 'opeless," he said as his hand slid down her jaw, his thumb caressing the corner of her lips, but she ignored him. He sighed, and made his departure.

Inside her mind, Hermione had come to a fork. Her heart refused to believe that her two wonderful, brave boys were dead, while her mind admitted that there was a strong likelihood of that particular result. For a good fifteen minutes she sat motionless in the wooden chair, thoughts all a-tangle until, eventually, she came the defiantly optimistic conclusion that, until she knew for sure, she would whole-heartedly believe them to be alive.

After all, surviving was Harry's specialty.

Wiping away drying tear tracts and slightly comforted by her decision, Hermione crept back to the bed, the copy of _Stranger in a Strange Land_ clutched between her fingers.

At ten, she heard Jasper call out to her and fell off the bed, startled out of her book-induced reverie. She heard him snicker and glowered, not bothering to move from the position she'd landed in – face-down on the ground with her lower half snarled in the bed sheets and her hair splayed out so it covered the whole of her head and arms.

"Good morning," he said amusedly. Hermione grunted.

"I've been left to guard you," Jasper offered, "because Scabior's decided that you can't occupy yourself in an apartment sized tent on your own. I told him to buy you some books." He perched on the small table, legs swinging gently. "Of course, he didn't appreciate that at all, so, instead of getting my daily dose of exercise, I get to play baby-sitter," he continued. "Aren't you lucky!"

Hermione looked over her shoulder and glared at him.

"Oh, suck it up, princess," he drawled when she remained motionless on the floor. "This is how things stand – you've just got to deal with it."

"Easy for you to say," she growled. "You're not being held hostage."

"Not in so many words," Jasper agreed, "but I'd think twice, if I were you, before assuming that that everybody involved in this war is acting voluntarily. There's more to it than right and wrong, even for you." He looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "After all, you illegally tampered with your muggle parents' memories, didn't you?"

Hermione scrambled around to face him properly. "How do you know about that?"

He shrugged. "Common sense; I'd've done the same in your position. Even Scabior wasn't quite sure you'd go that far, but your reaction just now confirmed it to me. It was smart. Yaxley wasn't best pleased when he arrived to find the house boarded up."

Hermione stared at the Snatcher – Jasper, she recalled his name. She'd had little bursts of guilt after Obliviating her parents, but in recent months she'd felt it to be the right decision (better childless and unaware than parents and dead). Jasper's comment only proved her instinct right; Death Eaters _had_ targeted her family.

"Now," the blond man said, "you need to eat, or I'll be in trouble with our illustrious leader."

After finishing her meal, Hermione settled onto the settee, a question on the tip of her tongue. She held it as long as she could, but in the end her nosiness won through: "Jasper, why are _you_ here? I mean, _here_, of all places?"

"Why am I hanging about with a rag-tag group of Snatchers?" he clarified, "because I have no choice."

"There's always a choice," Hermione said reproachfully.

"No," he mused, his eyes glazing slightly as he gazed at something that wasn't there. "There may be two options, but sometimes there is only one choice."

Hermione fell silent momentarily. She could understand that way of thinking. It was the same one that had led her and Ron along on the dangerous and blind horcrux hunt with Harry. It hurt to think about them, so instead of pursuing that path of questioning, she asked Jasper, "How was Scabior elected leader?"

Honestly, she was curious. Mikhail, the man from the previous evening, had responded fearfully to Scabior's wand-drawing, aware that he had broken an agreement, and the entire group of men had seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see their leader's reaction.

Jasper paused. "I'm not sure if I should tell you."

"Please."

He tilted his head, scrutinising her. "Alright," he conceded. "But remember that you wanted to hear it.

"Scabior, like most Snatchers, is out of Azkaban. In fact, he was in the same area that Sirius Black occupied for twelve years; the high security section. I'm not sure how he managed to maintain as much sanity as he did, really, because he was in there four years before they were broken out. From what I hear, it was a double murder that landed him there. It's also generally acknowledged that Azkaban is the reason his sense of smell is so good – the darkness and silence may have damaged some senses, but it certainly enhanced others.

"He says he joined the Snatchers for lack of anything else to do and stable pay, and, initially, he was low-ranking, like the rest of us. A motley crew we made, for sure," Jasper said with an unpleasant chuckle. "The first leader, a talented fellow by the name of Grosser, wormed his way onto Scabior's bad side after an unsuccessful Snatch. There were words about appearances and something about private property and possession, I believe. At any rate, we found Grosser next day tied to one of the trees, bleeding and barely alive, blabbering apologies to an absent Scabior, adamant in presenting him the leadership.

"When Scabior turned up, casual as you please, he accepted the position and put the old fellow out of his misery. I've never seen so much blood; not even from Fenrir."

Hermione held her hand to her mouth, shocked. "That's awful!"

"It wasn't a great vision to wake up to, I'll admit," Jasper agreed. "But, on the whole, I prefer Scabior to Grosser. He's much more organised."

"He's a murderer!"

"Yes, and he's not the only one in this camp," Jasper reminded her, and the grave truth of the comment drew that particular topic of discussion to a definitive end.

The silence was almost companionable, though it was still weighted by the content of their speech, but the quiet couldn't last; Hermione was still curious.

"How did you guess about my parents?" she blurted after two minutes of withheld conversation.

"Scabior's notebook is full of interesting notes," Jasper responded vaguely.

Hermione grunted ambiguously. "Full of the names of muggleborns and half-bloods and perfectly innocent human beings! And no doubt anything else he could ever wish to know!"

"That's the thing about Scabior," Jasper granted. "He's born to be a Snatcher. He knows everything about everyone." The man smirked and added, "That's why his hair is so big – it's full of secrets."

Hermione, despondent as she was, couldn't help but giggle at the observation. Then the giggle turned into a laugh, and the laugh snowballed into hysterics, and Jasper watched, bemused, as the tiny witch drew gasping breaths and shook violently each time she tried to quell the eruptions, tears leaking from her eyes.

"Alright, there?" he interrupted finally, one brow raised.

Hermione released a few weak laughing sighs. The end of her laughing fit ended by the sharp crack of Apparition that signalled the arrival of some of the other Snatchers back at camp. There was a sudden descent of solemnity and guilt as she heard the cries of captives and the sound of flesh hitting flesh as the Snatcher's beat their prisoners into submission.

||-:-||

The head Snatcher pocketed a little black notebook, having just checked off three more names belonging to fleeing muggleborns and a half-blood wizard who was a well-known Light sympathiser. He smiled, pleased with the day's work. Organising two of his men to convey the prisoners to the Ministry, Scabior brightened even more as he realised the time; it was almost three o'clock – time to return to the camp, and his lovely witchling hostage.

He wondered whether her fight would be back yet. He preferred her stubborn defiance and fire to the pitiful, broken child he'd left behind that morning. With a crack like a gunshot, Scabior vanished.

||-:-||

Jasper was looking at her, pity in his eyes.

She couldn't stand it.

He opened his mouth, but the words that flowed out of it certainly weren't what she was expecting: "You need to let loose. Laughter's all well and good, naturally, but you need to get your head back together. Catharsis, you know."

Hermione stared at him.

Jasper stared back.

She stared at him some more, her gaze level.

"Bollocks," she said carefully. Jasper raised an eyebrow encouragingly.

"Bollocks, crap, bugger!" she added. "Stupid, buggering arse shit! Shit, shit, bugger, balls! Prick!"

"There we go, keep it up," Jasper urged buoyantly. Hermione stood up and grabbed the sole cushion on the settee, swinging it around to connect with anything and everything. The bookshelf, the table, the settee, the chair (Jasper only missing a hit because he had the sense to duck out of the way) – everything was fair game.

"You're getting there," Jasper said. "But really let go this time. Say the things you've always wanted to yell out but never felt you ought to speak!"

Hermione took a deep breath and, punctuating each cry with a swing of the cushion against the table, yelled: "FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCKING ARSHOLE FUCK! MOTHERF-"

There was a loud crack and Hermione spun around to see Scabior, staring at her with widened eyes, a dead rabbit hanging limply in his hands.

"-ucker…" she finished awkwardly, her face flushing crimson.

Jasper slunk towards the exit, a hint of a grin on his lips.

"I'll just be going shall I?" he said congenially and darted out of the tent before Scabior could respond.

"Don' stop on my account," Scabior said when they were alone, tossing the rabbit onto the table.

Hermione scowled, aware of the fact that she probably looked like an aggressive tomato. "Don't you own any other trousers?" she bit out. The head Snatcher smiled at her; the fire was back.

"They're my lucky, fast ones," he told her. "Ye take what ye can get when yer on the run. Ye should know that. And besides, I like 'em." He put his hands in his pockets and rolled onto his heels, smiling fondly at the plaid material.

"How was yer day, anyhow," Scabior asked. "Jasper, reasonable company was 'e?"

"Yes."

"Teachin' ye rude things, so I gather?"

"No," she denied with a quiet sigh. "He was helping me to feel better."

"By having ye swear like a Knockturn Alley whore?" Scabior noted amusedly. "Curious method."

"It's more than you've done," she said through a glower. Scabior's expression darkened and Hermione saw the eerie emptiness, a lasting taint from Azkaban, unmistakable in his eyes.

"Tread carefully, witchlin'," he snarled. "Ye'd be Werewolf meat by now if it weren' for me, and, speakin' of, yer not yet out of that particular danger zone – things can change in less than an 'eartbeat."

Hermione's gaze dropped to the floor. He was right; her temper had run away with her. Again. She'd have to remember to keep a tight rein on it in the coming days if she wished to live past Friday.

"I'm sorry."

Scabior, his eyes narrowed, didn't show any of the surprise he felt at her apology. It was, however, unexpected. Clearly her fight wasn't back to full strength yet (that, or she'd come to the sensible conclusion that if she were confined to this cage, she might as well make it a pleasant place to live).

Again that night Hermione slept restlessly, but despite her terrors she didn't wake when the lean figure of a man crawled beneath the sheets beside her, holding her until she settled, nestled comfortably in his arms.

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><p><strong>Please, Read and Review Responsibly!<strong>

**To everyone who noted it, yes the numbers **_**are**_** in Irish! I'm learning the language at university in Australia. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, my very favourite subject. Also, cheers for the lovely reviews ^_^ I'm glad you're all enjoying it. Updates will, hopefully, be fairly regular, but not as quick as the first few (I already had them written and finished).**


	4. a ceathair

**A/N: Things be getting saucy from here on in. **

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><p><em>Hermione slept restlessly again that night, but despite her terrors she didn't wake when the lean figure of a man crawled beneath the sheets beside her, holding her until she settled, nestled comfortably in his arms.<em>

"**tis in my hand she shatters"  
><strong>_and if your strife strikes at your sleep  
>remember spring swaps snow for leaves<br>/Winter Winds – Mumford & Sons)_

-:-

Hermione, after years of hanging around Harry, had thought she was pretty good in terrifying and dangerous situations. Facing life-or-death puzzles, surviving basilisk attacks, changing time and rescuing a hippogriff and convicted convict from hundreds of hungry Dementors, helping her friend win the Tri-Wizard tournament, expelling a cruel and awful teacher from Hogwarts, fighting Voldemort and Death Eaters, enduring torture; she'd thought she'd seen it all.

But facing an angry, hungry, _noticeably aroused_ Fenrir Greyback ousted all of these to take top position in her long list of most frightening experiences.

To make things worse, she knew she shouldn't have been outside in the first place. It was one of Scabior's three rules, which she had flaunted in a temper after he'd left her only to find that there had been a very, very good reason for its establishment.

Greyback was growling at her, a manic shine in his amber eyes, his filed teeth bared in a feral grin. He wore only the barest amount of clothes, a pair of tiny navy football shorts, and Hermione could see all his matted hair and muscle, the sight of him all the more formidable for it, though his form dwarfed the already miniscule pants. Greyback licked his lips; Hermione backed herself further against the canvas of the tent behind her, her chest heaving as she cried in fear, trying to drag some oxygen into her petrified body, a nasty scrape of his fingernails showing red along her shoulder.

"I can smell you, taste you, from here, girlie," Greyback rumbled gleefully. "My teeth will rip your white throat, and red blood will fall down, down, down. I wonder… will it taste as sweet as you smell?"

He prowled closer, taking his time, enjoying the scent of fear and blood as it rolled off her and into the forest air. Grimy fingernails contrasted his gleaming teeth, his dirty, muscled arm reaching out to grab her neck…

Hermione closed her eyes, welcoming the death that would bring her to Ron and Harry, anticipating a grip that never came. In place of it, she heard the tell-tale sound of hexes flying through the air. Her brown eyes shot open.

Scabior, wand outstretched, had blasted Greyback out of the way with a nasty orange curse, whispered in his ear some harsh words that she couldn't quite make out and kicked him in the stomach for good measure, before his furious gaze settled on Hermione. Had she been more aware, the intense anger emanating from him would have caused her to cower against the tent almost as much as Greyback had, but her trembling figure had collapsed, tears and fright overcoming her, and Scabior grabbed her easily, roughly throwing her over his shoulder and marching quickly into the confines of his tent.

He tossed her without ceremony against the table, her shift-covered hip bumping painfully against the edge.

In the stillness of the tent, Scabior was trembling as much as she was, though it was far more fury than fear. His icy blue gaze was turned upon her and he stalked up to the table with a murderous expression on his face.

"Three things," he hissed, as she shook violently, "three simple rules! The only things ye had to follow, the only things ye had to do to stay safe here. Are ye dense? He could've killed you in a second; it would've been so easy!"

All of a sudden, hardly allowing her time to struggle, Scabior forced her horizontal on the table and reached out his own hand, the one that bore the silver stag ring, making Hermione flinch as it closed around her throat. He increased the pressure, and Hermione tried to kick, and clawed at his fingers, anything to remove his grasp, but it was to no avail. A wave of light-headedness hit as her body began to crave oxygen. She let her hands fall, resigned, tears leaving tracks down her cheeks.

Gently, his fingers released her slender throat, four red lines lingering on her pale neck.

He leaned over her, watching as her chest heaved. "It'd be _so_ _easy_ for _any_ of them," he breathed against her temple. The whisper turned into a caress, and his lips trailed downwards, reaching her sore throat and kissing each of the finger marks. He tangled his fingers in her hair and his warm mouth latched onto a point where neck became shoulder, causing her to mewl and wrap her arms about him, drawing him closer.

"_Yer mine_," he murmured against her skin. "_If yer to break at all, it's to be by _my_ hand._"

Hermione gave in; to the sensations, to him, to everything.

She was alive, and pleasure was coursing through her flesh – through her nerves – as the fingers that had so recently been wrapped around her throat ran from her hair down to her waist. His words were just noise, an addition to the feel of his lips and the touch of his hands on her body.

Unaware of anything else, Hermione wrapped her legs about his waist, clutching at his back as her tears dried on flushed cheeks, her breath coming in gasps. They were pressed together intimately, touching from hip to shoulder; her fingers slid to his bird's nest hair, his mouth across the pale column of her neck, and then, reluctantly, he pulled away.

She made a minute sound of disappointment.

"Don' try an' leave again," Scabior said shortly, his voice gruff. "Yer no use to me dead."

Tugging on her hand, he dragged her off the table, and Hermione, her legs barely working, followed him into the bedroom, where he had her sit on the bed while he dressed the wound on her shoulder.

The room was encased in silence. Hermione, flushed and mortified at her own reckless behaviour (both outside and inside the tent), held her tongue in a rare show of restraint, like a rag doll allowing the lead Snatcher to arrange her body as he so wished while he healed her injury.

When he was finished, Hermione whispered, "Thank you."

"I feel as if ye spend all yer time apologisin'," Scabior said in a slightly strained conversational tone, half facing the wall instead of her.

"No," Hermione offered weakly, "I read sometimes, too."

It tempted a small smile from him. With a shake of his head, he wandered over to the tent's exit.

"I'll be back later; stay here," he said, and Hermione looked away when she saw the hard glint in his eye. She fancied that his soon-to-be-company was going to have an unpleasant time; part of her hoped it might be Greyback. Scabior knew it would be – the Werewolf may have had the right to attack her as she walked alone through the camp, but she still belonged to him, and _nobody_ touched his possessions.

Leaving her to recover in peace, he approached the still groaning, enormous lycanthrope.

"I 'ope ye've learned, Greyback ye fuckin' berk," he said conversationally. "She's _mine._ Don' touch 'er again." He made to leave, but turned and added with a nasty sneer, "Oh, and about the curse… It'll wear off in a few hours, not to worry. Enjoy the experience, Werewolf."

He Disapparated with a crack.

||-:-||

He'd arrived back late, after she'd gone to bed, but the net of sleep hadn't lasted.

Hermione stepped tentatively towards the partition that signalled Scabior's room. She'd never stepped inside it, but her terrors tonight had been more vivid and horrifying than before, with the horrid addition of Fenrir Greyback overwhelmed by bloodlust, and for once she yearned to have him – anyone – to hold her and fight off the nightmares.

Hermione's feet padded quietly against the floor, and she paused as she saw the candlelight create dancing shadows against the canvas. She could see the man's figure moving about, a final organisation before falling into bed, and she watched, transfixed, as the silhouette raised the shirt over its head, dropping it haphazardly on the floor before reaching for the zip of the trousers. In the lateness of the hour, the movements were sensual and evocative. Hermione licked her lips and shifted her stance.

"Who's there?" Scabior barked, turning to face the entrance. "Hermione?"

Gulping, she stepped up to the door way and pushed it open.

He hadn't removed his plaid trousers yet, though they hung open on his hips. "Wha's wrong?"

"I had a nightmare," she told him almost inaudibly, embarrassed.

He watched her for a moment and then re-buttoned his pants. Gesturing for her to come over, he climbed onto the bed and held his arm up, indicating for her to join him. Uncertainly, she crossed the floor and carefully dropped down beside him; he pulled her close, spooning her, and covered them both with the sheet, his nose buried in her curly hair.

At that moment, Hermione didn't care that he was a murderer. She curled up next to him and fell into a dreamless sleep as good as any potion.

Scabior, however, took longer to settle. His troubles from the first night arose with a vengeance – her pretty, slender figure, soft curves and intoxicating scent called to him, made him want to possess her completely. When he was sure she slept, he pressed his warm, open mouth against her shoulder, and brought her closer beneath the sheets. The hand about her waist that was securing her against him drifted to the underside of her breasts, softly caressing. She sigheded in her sleep.

He could see every inch her, despite the cloth and blankets; the whole of her naked form burned forever into his brain.

He hoped she'd yield soon. How much longer he could last, he wasn't sure.

||-:-||

Light wormed its way into the tent, never allowing it to remain dark during the day though the elements and outside world were duly blocked. Hermione woke slowly, calmly, her eyes fluttering as she grew accustomed to her state. She realised that she was not in her usual room at the same time she noticed the discomfort of something poking against her bottom. As she became aware of the muscular arm locking her against a bare, male chest, she understood exactly what the prodding object was, the beat of her heart increasing rapidly at the realisation.

Her mind was a flurry of recollections as she went through the processes of how she'd arrived in Scabior's bed, wrapped up in his arms, and blushingly recalled their highly charged encounter on the breakfast table before she remembered the nightmares that had terrorised her in the moments before she'd buried her pride and gone to her captor for relief.

She wriggled slightly and behind her Scabior made a quite groan of displeasure, flexing his arm as he buried his face deeper into her tangle of curls. Hermione tried to school herself, her body's reaction traitorous in the arms of the murderer and kidnapper, but the masculine scent of him was engulfing her senses, and the feel of him pressed lengthwise against her was doing a brilliant job at reminding her of their dalliance the day before, conversely providing no help whatsoever in the prevention of her increasing arousal.

She tried to slip away, but the husky voice of the Snatcher broke the morning's silence: "Don' move."

"I have to-" she began, but he pulled her onto her back and lay half of his body over her, effectively trapping her against the bed, before seeming to fall back to sleep.

"No, ye don'," he disagreed drowsily. His chest and the arm he'd flung out to cage her in were immovable, and after a mere a minute she gave in to his will, and settled back into the bed, his lethargy contagious. Better to fight him when she was well rested, she thought to herself in defence of that moment of weakness.

When she woke again, Scabior was gazing at her with his carefully blank expression, icy blue eyes seeing straight through to her soul. She shivered and felt her cheeks turn pink, feeling as though he could read her mind. (She hoped he wasn't a Legilimens, even though the likelihood of him possessing _that_ particular talent was slimmer than Snape and Voldemort skipping through a field of daisies in pink wizarding robes. With Dumbledore's death, the only two living masters of the art were the two wicked, evil wizards themselves, as far as Hermione knew).

He removed his gaze and rolled off the bed, his plaid pants slightly crumpled, and retrieved his shirt, donning it unceremoniously. Hermione watched him as discreetly as possible; there was a sensuality, an eroticness about watching a person dress - there was an intimacy, an ease that didn't exist in the reverse.

She lay amongst the white sheets, her brown hair surrounding her pale face like a halo.

"Are ye comin'?" Scabior asked of her as she refused to move. "Or are ye staying tucked up in my bed for the rest o' the day?"

"It's warm here," she said by way of response.

"Aye, my pretty little turtle," he agreed with a grin. "But it's my bed and my rules."

"I'm well within your rule boundaries to disobey you inside the tent," Hermione pointed out.

"Perhaps," he admitted lightly. "But let's get ye up and about, 'ave a cup o' rosie lea, and then see what the day 'as planned – s'a day off for the Snatchers, after all." He cocked his head, giving him a lopsided sweet appearance that Hermione wouldn't trust with a ten foot pole. "Now, 'ow's yer arm?"

"Fine," she answered warily, her hand sliding up to the almost healed injury that she'd received grace of Fenrir Greyback the previous afternoon.

Scabior walked up to where she sat amongst the sheets. "Really?" he pestered, crossing his arms. "Because it seemed yesterday ye were a bit ginger with it." He raised a brow suggestively and Hermione knew he meant their little escapade after her rescue. She blushed crimson and he let out a bark of laughter.

"Come on, swee'eart," he encouraged, "'ave some breakfast with me."

Compliantly, Hermione followed him out, thinking over some of his speech. "Rosie lea," she said interestedly, "that's tea, isn't it?"

Scabior smiled as he organised their dishes. "Indeed," he acknowledged. "Familiar with the old rhyming slang, are ye?"

"Not at all," she replied. "Not in that sense. I've read about it, though. It was created by and for criminals to evade the law. I'm just surprised that wizards are using it."

"Well," Scabior hesitated, "the line between the two worlds is hazy sometimes; a criminal's a criminal wherever he goes, after all."

"Too true," Hermione commented under her breath and contented herself to watching him discreetly from her seat at the table. He was confusing her. Strangely enough, it was a similar way to how Viktor Krum had flustered her when she was a mere fourteen years old (there were no deaths hanging over her head like a nightmare when she danced at the Yule Ball with him, an international Quidditch sensation) before the nightmare had started once more with Voldemort's renaissance.

Scabior was lithe and lean, muscled, but different to the heavy, beefy size of Greyback (_Hermione shuddered, thinking of how close she had come to feel the beastly man's teeth ripping out her throat_). His clear, icy blue, and undressing eyes made her feel as if there were a thousand snitches jostling around in her stomach, and she could feel the phantom touches of his lips as she recalled their trail down her flesh from the day before. Something coiled deep within her, and Hermione looked away quickly, guiltily, focusing on the blandness of the tent walls before she acted rashly or spoke out of turn.

Her concentration was broken, however, by a strange foreign cry. It was Jasper's voice, but she recognised not the language he spoke. Scabior replied with a short, "Aye", and the cultivated snatcher entered the tent, mock saluting his leader as he sprawled into a seat beside Hermione, careless as he pleased. She had to envy the refined manner in which he managed to sprawl – briefly, she wondered whether he and Zabini really were related.

"I know I'm pretty, witchling, but really, you mustn't stare," he drawled flippantly, and Hermione scowled.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said primly. "I was merely wondering if your ancestry contained peacocks; the similarities are uncanny."

It was pushing her luck, she knew it, but Jasper only laughed fondly.

"So the kitten does have claws," he laughed. "And here I was thinking we'd broken your spirit. Glad to see I won't be needed to aid you in catharsis anymore. You were getting into the swing of things admirably yest-"

"_Yes, thank you_," Scabior interrupted pointedly. The blond smirked.

Scabior leaned on the table, selecting a peach for his breakfast. "Now, what do ye have for me, Jasper?"

"A school age muggleborn sighted in Cornwall; two ancient Chinese wizards caught speaking the taboo (of course, it so happens that they're almost deaf, and weren't sure of what they were hearing – apparently the word in question was actually vol-au-vents); and, finally, a lead on that thing you wanted me to look into. I'll explain later tonight."

Scabior's eyes brightened at the last, and he smiled, pleased. "Good work. Now, unsettle yerself from my table, ye leech."

Jasper, who had pinched an apple and was happily chomping on it, let out an exaggerated sigh but stood and began to meander to the exit, audaciously patting Hermione on the cheek as he passed.

"By the way," he added as he neared the door, "Yaxley's coming this afternoon."

Hermione and Scabior turned to look at him and he continued calmly: "You might want to keep a low profile for the hour or so; I believe he's had some recent trouble at the Ministry."

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><p><strong>Please, Read and Review Responsibly.<strong>

**Cockney Rhyming Slang:  
>- berk (BerkelyBerkshire Hunt = a word you can probably guess; rhymes with 'hunt')  
>- turtle (turtle dove = love)<br>- rosie lea (rosie lea = tea)**


	5. a cúig

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay, things got busy at the end of semester and I'm too high-strung at the moment for superb concentration because I'M SEEING DEATHLY HALLOWS PART II IN TWO DAYS. *hyperventilates to the point of joy implosion* Unfortunately, I think the quality of this chapter is down somewhat, but I hope it's not awful. I found it difficult to write, anyway.**

* * *

><p>"<em>By the way," he added as he neared the door, "Yaxley's coming this afternoon."<em>

_Hermione and Scabior turned to look at him and he continued calmly: "You might want to keep a low profile for the hour or so; I believe he's had some recent trouble at the Ministry." _

"**in his palm he holds her"  
><strong>_we strangers know each other now  
>as part of the whole design<br>/Gypsy – Suzanne Vega)_

-:-

Hermione lay on the settee, reading, absorbing none of the words as she waited for Yaxley's arrival at camp. Staring in frustration at the pages, she caught a glimpse of something shining in the periphery of her vision. It was gold, a fine chain that reached from the wrist holding up her book and weaving its way out of the tent, but as soon as Hermione turned her gaze to it, it vanished.

With a sudden realisation she recalled the Life Debt she had inadvertently set in motion when she'd first awoken; the chain was a magical aura of her bond with Scabior, a metaphor of the link she now shared with him until the debt was repaid, he released her, or one or both of them were taken by Death. She frowned at the thought, but the tiniest part of her (buried far, far in the depths of her mind) contemplated that maybe dying wouldn't be so bad, especially if her boys had already passed on – she hastily wiped tearful eyes at the notion, fleeting though the thought had been.

Lord, she missed them something awful! She'd been compartmentalising all her past so well lately, trying to focus solely on the here and now, but occasionally – and, truly, they were fewer and far between these days – some banal thought would pass through her brain and trigger a memory that released the floodgates: Harry, Ron, Ginny, and, of course, her parents – everyone she loved dearly and missed terribly. They were all in her mind's eye, making her heart ache.

There was a sharp crack of Apparition and in surprise Hermione dropped her book, startled out of her maudlin reflections. Scabior dashed out of his room, a look of determination on his face. "Stay in my bedroom," he ordered, ushering her through to sit on the ground beside his bed, where she wouldn't be seen from the entrance should Yaxley decide to glance across the threshold.

Hermione obeyed gladly, remembering the Death Eater from earlier confrontations: he was heartless and calculating, and undeniably creepy – the kind of man who took what didn't belong to him just because he could, and bullied those who were smaller and weaker than he, invariably using dark magic to do so. She had the distinct feeling, too, that he was the type of man who'd quite happily look up women's skirts and just generally be the boss that never got pinned for sexual harassment purely because the girls were too scared to buck up and call him on it for fear of severe retribution.

"I'll be back soon. Keep quiet, yeah?" Scabior was saying, his hand grasping her chin as he looked into her eyes for confirmation. Hermione nodded, licking her lips.

He cocked a lopsided smile for her and disappeared to meet Yaxley, and Hermione, in silence, counted the minutes while she waited. After a moment, she tilted her head, realising the hum of the two men's voices were getting closer to her hiding place.

"_-not the point. The fact remains that she's muggleborn, and not your property,_" Yaxley was saying, his Scottish burr seeming especially pronounced.

"_Ye'll find the Dark Lord'll disagree_," Scabior argued nastily. "_It was 'e who gifted the pretty thing to me, after all_."

Yaxley paused, then continued scornfully: "_It is curious to me, the way you defended her so nobly; duelling the Dark Lord's seconds. I hear that she would have died had you not intervened with Bellatrix during the torture."_

"_I was promised a bed-mate,_" Scabior said icily, "_and I intended to 'ave 'er alive._"

"_Perhaps, though I do not believe you. Either way, Bellatrix was not best pleased, as you'll soon find. I believe she intends to have you Crucio'd for the manner in which you stole her play-thing_."

"_She can try_," Scabior commented idly. "_I ent a-feared, not with _my_ wand skill. The witch's never shown more'n a passin' ability for anything other'n a good Cruciatus, an' it doesn't look like anythin's changed._"

"_Regardless,_" Yaxley said, "_you should remember that, but for you, the Mudblood Granger would be in Azkaban, paying for her crimes against wizard-kind._"

"_Per'aps ye'll find she's already paid – an' dearly, too."_

Yaxley didn't reply immediately, but when he did it was with more than a little irritation: "_If she be dead already and you leading me a pretty dance this whole chat, so help me Scabior-_"

Hermione heard Scabior bark out a laugh and Yaxley growled in annoyance. They were close to the door, but apparently weren't coming any closer. She breathed a sigh of relief, guessing they were standing somewhere around the large wooden dinner table.

"_S'matter o' fact,_" the Snatcher alleged, and Hermione frowned as his next words floated through to her, "_yer bang on the money. Disposed o' what was left o' her after she tried to escape past ol' Greyback, stupid bint. On the plus side, I'd 'ad me way with her already, so no losses there. Still, a pity…_"

"_The Dark Lord will be pleased when I tell him this_," Yaxley informed Scabior, the words accompanied by footsteps presumably leading to the door. There was another pause and the Death Eater added, "_But I hope, for your sake, it's the truth._"

"_What reason would I have to conceal the truth?_"

There came no answer, and Hermione waited with baited breath until the crack of Apparition signalled the Death Eater's exit. Her sigh of relief was audible and she sagged visibly, only then realising how tense she'd become on his entry into the tent that had become something of a sanctuary for her in the last few weeks.

"I s'pose ye heard most o' that?" Scabior asked charily as he moved stealthily into his room. Hermione nodded guiltily (though she'd had no other option but to hear the words shared between the two men).

"Did you really duel Bellatrix?" she asked. "Over me?"

"I tried words first," Scabior replied a little defensively, "but it was hex first, talk later after that if ye wanted to live. Crazy Bella's not known for less-is-more, 'specially when it comes to muggleborns. Though," he added with a smirk, "the Dark Lord wasn't impressed when Bella's last spell went past his ear; I think that was part o' the reason we were allowed out so easily, actually."

"You saved me," she whispered as the realisation settled in her mind. "You saved me, and then you healed me." He shrugged.

Stepping forward, he offered her a hand to pull her up off the floor which Hermione, biting her lip, tentatively reached out and took it in a firm, but gentle, grasp. Then, seemingly coming to a conclusion about something, she hauled herself up and launched herself up into his arms, wrapping her own about his neck.

"Thank you," she breathed emotionally. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the sudden show of affection, but trapped her slender body against his chest, his gloved hands coming to encircle her waist.

The hug, for that was all it was, started out fairly neutral, almost platonic, but Scabior was late in reprimanding his wandering hands and the hand with the stag ring slid down to cup her pert bottom. She flinched, surprised at this new boldness, but did not pull away, instead gazing into his emotionless eyes with an expression that the Snatcher couldn't quite place. While stormy grey met liquid brown, time slowed. Sound seemed to dissipate as the pair looked at each other in a weighted moment that one had been anticipating, the other blissfully unaware.

Scabior didn't move; he barely breathed as she stared into his lined eyes with an intensity he relished, and the Snatcher waited with increasing impatience as the pretty witch inched forward, her brows pulled into the gentlest of frowns. His lips parted when she finally closed the distance between them, her arms still locked about his neck, and his hand tangled in her hair, gripping the curly brown tendrils tightly as their lips moved together, tongues sliding tentatively against their opposite.

Hermione felt a fire rise up in her tummy, her skin felt aflame as Scabior's hands roamed across her flesh and she shivered with pleasure when he drew their bodies together in an intimate embrace. Slowly, the Snatcher guided her to the bed, inching her backwards until it pressed against her knees and caused her to fall back amongst the sheets. Scabior followed her down, the weight of him cradled in her hips comforting and arousing her more than she thought appropriate between a hostage and her captor. But then Scabior had _never_ really been your average Snatcher.

They were a mess of tangled limbs and hot kisses, breathlessness and burning touches, moving together in a graceless dance of yearning desperation, and when Scabior collapsed over her, their bodies moist and fatigued, she clutched him tightly, anxious to keep him close. The Snatcher nuzzled her neck gently before warm, open-mouthed kisses were trailed along the pale column; Hermione sighed with pleasure.

"I take it Yaxley ca- Holy shit!"

The post-coitus haze was interrupted by the cheerful voice of Jasper, who stopped short when he reached the door (and the sight within) and flung an arm across his eyes dramatically. "Oh, Merlin pants, you two," he bemoaned, "you didn't!"

Hermione, quick as lightning, launched herself under the covers with a shriek.

"Shut it, Jasper," Scabior growled, "But in answer to your question, so you'll leave, yes. Yaxley did come."

"And he's not the only one, by the looks of it."

"Get out, Jasper!" Hermione demanded boldly from beneath her sheet-tent, just as Scabior snarled, "Fuck off."

The blond snickered, but hovered in the doorway. "Gladly, but I still have something important to tell you," he reminded his superior. Hermione was startled to find Scabior's entire mood changed at those words. He scrambled to dress and in a matter of moments had disappeared out of the tent. She huffed, and fell back with a satisfying thump.

"They're alive," Jasper hissed when he and his superior were out of earshot, a ways into the woods. "They both escaped the Manor. Merlin only knows how, but they did. What are you going to do?"

"Fuck," Scabior ejaculated, running a hand over his forehead. "Things'd be so much easier if they were dead."

"Well, they're not," Jasper retorted, "and now you've got their bloody third piece naked in your bed. So, _what are you going to do_? She'll never forgive if you lie to her about this; they're more protective of each other than a mother dragon of her eggs."

"Who says I want forgiveness?"

"Oh, please!" Jasper scoffed. "Don't give me that; I've seen you, I've seen her and I've seen you both together. She could get away with bloody murder in that tent of yours."

Scabior stared with deadly intent at the blond man, and for several moments there was danger in the air, but then he folded. "Ye always see far too much, Jasper," he ceded. "Though, truth be told, that's why I've kept ye by for so long."

"You'll still have to tell her," Jasper repeated, nodding respectful acknowledgement to his superior's words.

"Aye," Scabior admitted resignedly. "And I ent lookin' forward to it."

His trepidation was well placed.

That evening, when he told her of her boys' continued survival, Hermione's knees had folded in overwhelming relief, but then she had begun to bawl hysterically, partly in happiness and partly in anger and fear and shame. Following this rollercoaster of emotion, she'd proceeded to yell at him for the better part of an hour and a half, finding them at the point where they now stood at an impasse:

"You said they were dead!" Hermione screeched.

"No," Scabior denied, "You begged me to tell you they weren't."

"But, you said! You let me think… you-" she paused, mid-tirade, before fury took over her being. She threw herself at him, hitting and scratching at any skin she could reach. "You lied! You vile, god-forsaken arse! How could you! They are everything to me – they're my brothers!"

She collapsed, a tearful wreck, and he squatted in front of her, hands on either side of her face.

"Go," he said emotionlessly, wrapping her fingers around her beloved wand of vine. "Find them."

She bore her brown-eyed gaze into his blue orbs and searched them; then, seeing nothing but honesty, she fled.

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><p><strong>Please, Read and Review Responsibly!<strong>

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, it's amazing and I love opening my inbox to find every single one of them. They really make an author's day. I hope you enjoy this instalment regardless of my opinion. **

**Let me know if there are any glaringly obvious mistakes I've missed, or anomalies in this chapter. And I'll try to be faster with the updates.**


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